Prime Time
by femme4jack
Summary: A collection of TF Prime one-shots, unrelated unless noted, various ratings, see warnings
1. I Needed That

**Title**: I Needed That  
><strong>Fandom<strong>: TF Prime  
><strong>Author<strong>: femme4jack  
><strong>Pairing<strong>: Arcee/Optimus Prime  
><strong>Rating<strong>: NC-17  
><strong>Warnings<strong>: Sticky smut. Oral. Tactile intimacy (spark casing and Matrix). Brief, non-explicit mention of non-Allspark creation method (unspecified). Not sure I need to warn for this, but my default is that femmes are a frame type, not gender, and have both spike and valve, just like a mech. Unbeta-ed.  
><strong>Summary<strong>: Arcee knows just what Optimus needs.  
><strong>Notes<strong>: Synaltern's prompt "I needed that" for my "kick start my muses lj post"::Text:: Comm chatter  
>Certain ideas about the Matrix, and what is blasphemous to do to it are from Aleph Abyssal1's fabulous story <em>The World's Translated Thus<em>. The idea of glyphs and ideographs being transmitted to accompany verbal conversation is from White Aster's awesome WIP _Warrior Goddess_ found on dreamwidth. Takes place sometime after the episode 14 "Shadowzone"

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><p>I Needed That<p>

* * *

><p>Arcee's optics followed as Optimus walked toward recharge bay the earth-based Autobots shared. His form was, as always, the picture of nobility, but there was a distinctive droop to his armor and an extra heaviness in his steps that after so many vorns in one another's company, could not be missed. Megatron was alive, dark energon somehow perverting even death itself. To make matters worse, it now appeared that Starscream, too, had infused his spark with the hideous substance. The Autobot refugees were outnumbered, outgunned, refined energon in short supply, and now they had to worry that somehow Megatron or his treacherous second-in-command would find a way to reanimate thousands of sparkless shells and overrun the fragile, frustrating organic rock which they protected.<p>

Even if they did somehow manage to succeed in stopping whatever scheme the all-too-quiet Megatron was cooking up, every one of the refugees knew that at some point, there would be no more energon, or they would not have the capacity to mine or process it.

Scrap. These were not the kind of thoughts that would help Optimus right now. He carried so much weight on his spark. The Matrix of Leadership was a heavy burden. He wasn't allowed to simply be a mech. He certainly didn't need the weight of the borderline despair she had been fighting ever since Cliffjumper's signal had disappeared from Ratchet's monitor.

She might be cynical. She might be angry, and wonder if this planet was worth what it had (and would) cost them. But she believed in Optimus. Not just because he was Prime. If she were honest, she didn't give a scrap about the Matrix and all of that ancient mythological mumbo jumbo. She followed Optimus, not the Prime. She followed him because he was worthy of it, had proven it time and time again, and because her creator's final wish was for her to do so. And no matter what anyone back on Cybertron might have said, he wasn't some god in living metal. He was a mech - a mech who didn't allow himself to be one. A mech who had needs that were rarely met because he was too busy caring for the rest of them and keeping the ungrateful and uneasy defense forces of this backwater rock appeased.

Yes, a mech with needs, and she knew how to care for them.

"Gonna catch some recharge, Jack," she informed her charge before heading down the corridor, a quickly transmitted glyph and a dirty look to the rest of her cohort ensuring that she wouldn't be interrupted.

"About time," Ratchet grumbled, and she knew he wasn't complaining about her being undercharged.

* * *

><p>Optimus sat on one of the three recharge berths located in the deepest part of their base, the creaking and groaning of his hydraulics and joints betraying just how overlong it had been since he had allowed himself the luxury of a full cycle of rest. Unsubspacing a cube, he pulled his pedes onto the berth and sat with his back against the wall, his ventilations approximating a sigh and he drank the energon his systems craved far too much of.<p>

He may have recovered from his recent virus, but he did not feel himself despite Ratchet's clean bill of health. He felt heavy. And while the human Miko might glibly inform him, _'Duh, you are heavy,'_ it was not a heaviness of his frame that troubled him. There was a constant weight on this spark, as though the Matrix had long ago ceased to give him wisdom, courage and strength, but instead was a burden he could hardly lift. In his darkest moments, he wondered if the Matrix had turned away from him, rejected him. He had been entrusted with the collective wisdom of every Prime before him, and under him Cybertron had been brought to ruin. The vast majority of his people were extinguished or in exile, the planet itself a dead husk, and now Megatron had within his means the power to devastate yet another world that had been placed under his care. These were not new thoughts to Optimus, but they were heavier now, more consuming, and far less easy to dismiss. It was as though the very power that had been able keep his lost brother's spark from guttering was draining his own spark of strength, of the courage and hope his cohort needed from him. And rather than rising to the task as a Prime should, he wanted to rip out the Matrix and be done with it.

"What are you processing," a quiet voice said at the same time as she transmitted a glyph offering _comfort_ and _company_, with the subharmonic making it very clear exactly what kind of comfort and company she was intending.

"Thoughts unbecoming of a Prime, Arcee" he quietly admitted, while silently transmitting _unworthy_ and _undeserving_.

The response he received in turn was a transmitted image of those glyphs meeting a violent end at the hands of her own laser cannon as she climbed easily onto his chassis, taking his finished cube and placing it on the table next to the berth. "Well why don't you let me help you forget those thoughts and replace them with other thoughts unbecoming of a Prime, hmm?" she offered slyly, putting her hands against his chest for a very unsubtle and suggestive magburst.

His spark surged, a charge of desire replacing the darkness of his thoughts. As she was so fond of reminding him, he might be Prime, but he was all mech, and with a rumbling groan, his panel slid open to reveal his half pressurized spike emerging from its housing swiftly to show that particular weakness.

"Arcee," his voice took on a deeper, more dangerous timbre, warning her that in his current state, very little of his precious control remained.

"Shut up and lay back and enjoy," she ordered in response, "and spread your legs."

He raised an optic ridge at her tone, but followed her instructions, spreading his legs and bending them at the knee with more creaks and groans of joints and hydraulics lacking proper lubrication from overuse. When he tried to reach out to touch her, to pull her small and deadly frame to himself, she grasped his much larger wrists and guided his hands behind his helm so he could watch. He did so, mesmerized as she smirked and knelt between his thighs, shuddering as her thin fingers capturing his spike and pumped it several times to complete its pressurization. His sensors lit up in anticipation as her hands moved to splay across his abdomen, teasing the cabling of his relatively slender waist. With her optics glued to his, she licked his spike from its base to tip, swirling around and probing into the circular opening to taste his lubricants.

The sheer visual stimulation was almost enough to send his exhausted frame and spark into overload. "Arcee," he moaned again as she took his thick spike into her mouth. It was too long for her swallow entirely. The end bumped against the back of her throat, and she massaged it with her glossa and intake, one hand holding down his waist, the other enveloping the base of his spike and squeezing the sensors there. Pleasure input rolled from his spike in waves throughout his frame, settling in his spark as she began to slowly move on him, her hand following her mouth to squeeze his nodes.

He knew he would not last. The charge was now racing through his frame, ghostly blue light dancing around her mouth as her optics continued to smirk at him. He groaned. He wanted to last, to bring pleasure to her as well. To slow the growth of the charge, he focussed on his memories of this femme who was so devastatingly beautiful and precious to him. There were so few of her lithe, unique frametype left. Rare even before the war, Megatron had once held nothing but contempt for femmes with their mysterious origins, strange culture and separate hierarchy. Like the Seekers, they could kindle true without the Allspark, but also like Seekers, only with one another. Femmes needed more than a trine. Bonded collectives of five or more were required to create a new femme. Unlike Seekers, they were not a warbuilds, and Megatron considered their need for the collective and their size to be weaknesses, unbefitting true Cybertronians.

Dismissing their value was one of Megatron's greatest early mistakes, which the Decepticons paid dearly for. When he had realized the advantage the small, swift processing troubleshooter-turned-saboteurs had over the lumbering, large, warbuilds the warlord favored, he had targeted them relentlessly. Arcee had been the last femme their command collective had created before they were destroyed, and their elder, Elita-1's, final order to her had been to flee and seek out Elita's mech consort, Optimus Prime, and serve under him. It was rare for a femme to consent to take a mech lover, but Elita-1 had sealed her alliance with Optimus by doing just that, and had entrusted her final creation to him. While Optimus could only hope that other femme collectives existed somewhere in the universe, the only other femme he knew of was one who had betrayed her own collective early in the war and turned against her build, one who now was somewhere on Earth. One whom he would rip apart with his bare hands if he could for what she had nearly done to this talented and deadly member of his cohort.

::Quit processing and let go!:: she commed him, aware that his thoughts, even amidst the growing pleasure, had turned back to brooding.

"Arcee, I wish to last, to bring you pleasure as well," he admitted as her mouth stilled on him, allowing the charge to briefly settle before she built it again.

With a scowl, she pulled herself off of his spike, shaking her head at him, bemused when he groaned in protest.

"I don't need you to take care of me," she said. "This is for you. You need it. And don't give me the slag about the Matrix demanding that you take care of the rest of us first."

His protest was cut off by the sound of her own interface panel opening, and his olfactory sensors registered the scent of rich lubricants as she climbed to straddle him. Her own spike emerged from its housing and she rubbed its smaller length against his own to pressurize it, wrapping her hands around them and angling her hips to allow both of their valves to rub together, their slick fluids mingling and running down his thighs. Only a static-laden choke managed to emerge from his vocalizer.

"Let me show you what I think of the Matrix demanding you always having to take care of all of us," she said, her voice now thick with her own desire. "Open up," she demanded.

He knew what was coming, what would have been unthinkable on Cybertron. A sacrilege. And her own way of showing him that to her, he was a mech first and foremost, not the living embodiment of a god. It brought a lightness to his spark that had been absent for too long. His chuckle turned into a moan as she sat up on her knees began to impale herself on his length at the same speed as his parting chest plates. She was so tight. So much tighter than even a small mech, but still took him, enveloping him, caressing him with the throbbing walls of her valve, lighting every sensor with her unquenchable heat. He felt as though his circuits would melt as the charge began to fiercely build again, ripping through his extremities and focussing its fury on his spark.

He felt the Matrix pulse with its own hunger for her, its pleasure a part of, yet alien from his own, desiring what it knew from experience she was about to give. The priests of the long-ago destroyed temple would have executed her for what she dared to do. The long extinguished council would have stripped the Matrix from him for daring to allow it. None of it mattered now. Just as she wished, he was simply a mech, hedonistically wanting everything she could give. Her valve could only take in half of his length, but it did not matter. She began to move on him, her impossible tightness sending waves of pleasure close to pain from spike to his entire neural net. Her mouth was perfectly placed as she leaned down over him and began to caress the matrix with her lips and glossa; the ancient Primes suddenly came to life within him, not to offer their remembered wisdom, but instead their remembered pleasure, coursing through his frame as they, too, became merely mechs. One of her hands reached up and caressed his spark casing, yet another blasphemy from anyone other than the Prime's council-dictated sparkmate.

But here, in this all too brief moment, he was not the Prime. He was Orion. Here there was no longer any council with their stuffy ways to tell him what it did and did not mean to be a Prime. There was only this incomparably beautiful and blasphemous femme who wanted nothing more than for him to be a mech. The weight of the Matrix under her lips became something wholly different as his overload, along with that of every Prime before him, crashed through his systems in waves of welcome release. His final thought before plummeting into deep recharge was to note the pleasure of hearing her beautiful keens echoing his own.

* * *

><p>Later, much later, Ratchet walked in to check on the recharging pair. His normally acerbic expression was replaced with a soft smile as he saw Arcee splayed out on their leader, resting literally within his still open chestplates, her valve still gently massaging his spike in an autonomic response. He scanned her and felt her stir in response to her recharge timer, set to wake her to take Jack home.<p>

::Don't you dare move a piston,:: he commed her silently. ::I'll take Jack home tonight.::

::Thought you didn't like being a sparking sitter,:: she responded, accompanied with a glyph expressing deep gratitude.

::I don't. But he needed that, and so did you. Doctor's orders,:: he replied, sending the same glyph in return.


	2. How To Torment Your Medic

**Title**: How to Torment your Medic  
><strong>Author<strong>: Femme4jack  
><strong>Fandom<strong>:TF Prime  
><strong>Characters<strong>: TF Prime Autobot & Human Ensemble, implied Optimus Prime/Ratchet  
><strong>Rating<strong>: PG/K  
><strong>WARNINGS<strong>:Brief mention of interfacing of an unspecified variety, possible hint of creation method other than Allspark.  
><strong>Summary<strong>: Miko asks some questions. My take on TF origin theories which will likely be obsolete by the end of the season.  
><strong>Notes<strong>: Written for Darthneko for tf_gift_exchange on the-fic-trader community at dreamwidth, and originally posted anon. This was my first attempt at a TF Prime story. I haven't read Exodus, only the Wiki synopsis, so there is probably much canon-fail here. The second section is an attempt for me to get my meta about Cybertronian origins down in fiction form, but I'm afraid it comes off as a huge info dump. I hope it shows a different side the character who gives said information. Also, in my head canon, Quintessons are not purely mechanoid. They are technorganic with organic origins.

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><p><strong>How to Torment your Medic<strong>

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><p>"Hey, Ratch, which came first, the robot or the egg?" Miko asked cheekily as she climbed out of Bulkhead, ready for yet another weekend hanging out on base. Current plan: distract herself by annoying the resident medic until something cool happened, like a Decepticon sighting, so Bulkhead could kick some 'Con aft.<p>

"Your question, Miko, while incorrectly stated, is actually one which has been the source of significant debate among our philosophers and scientists through the ages," Optimus intoned before Ratchet could react. "Our sparks, indeed, are in an egg-shaped casing, and there are several theories about the origins of said sparks, casings, and the mechanoid forms our sparks inhabit." The leader of the Autobots was a historian at spark, and had never forgotten it.

"Yeah, and I bet they are all bo-o-o-ring. Hey, Jack! How about a rematch on Mario Kart?" she yelled across the bunker as she and her endless energy bounded away towards the couch and game console that had been set up for the humans.

"I'm in," Jack said with a shrug, following her at a slower pace.

Ratchet vented in exasperation. "Like a _human_ could ever have any real appreciation or interest in the intricacies of Cybertronian origin theories," he complained acerbically, turning back toward the replacement part he was attempting to weld from the shoddy human supplies he was forced to work with.

"I'm interested," a smallish voice said from below. "Theories, huh? Does that mean you don't really know where you come from?"

Optimus knelt down so his optics were closer to the young human, a posture he had noticed put the organics at ease. "Indeed, Rafael. While each of the Autobots on base knows their personal origins, we only have theories, educated guesses, about the origin of our kind. Unlike your own species, we are not able to trace our mitochondrial DNA to find our commonality and shared history with other organisms."

"Mito-whatrial what now?" Miko asked from the couch where she was, surprisingly, still tuned in to the conversation as she and Jack raced.

"Don't you listen in Biology class?" Jack chided. "You know, the DNA in the little powerplants in our cells, that can be traced all way back to the earliest forms of bacterial life on Earth, which were engulfed by and entered into symbiosis with our cells' earliest ancestors."

"Ooooo, engulfed! Cool. But ALSO, bo-o-o-ring. You are such a geek, Jack." Miko never took her eyes from the screen.

Rafael ignored them, intent on Prime. "So, which did come first?"

"It is a fascinating topic Rafael," Optimus began to explain patiently, offering the youngest of the humans his hand and lifting him up. "Though a complicated one..."

* * *

><p><em>75 years later<em>

"There are many theories about their origins," the wrinkled professor explained to the packed auditorium. The audience was completely silent, their attention riveted on the elderly speaker and the holographic renderings which illustrated the lecture. Currently several similar three dimensional glyphs were floating before them. "Their own language betrays the uncertainty. As precise and detailed as Cybertronex is, the glyph that can be imprecisely translated into English as the field of _archaeology_ can, with a single addition to the figure, also be translated as _origin myth_, or even, with another slight alteration, _religion_, though all of those translations are frustratingly limited and imprecise to them.

"When they had leisure to study such things, they found physical clues regarding their origins, but those clues led to no less than two hundred and twenty three distinct theories, all of which were judged to be scientifically plausible at one time or another in their vast history. Even the most ancient archived memory cores of mecha who long ago gave up their sparks contained no decisive evidence of their true origins. With plenty of evidence supporting each theory and subtheory, what a given Cybertronian choses to believe (or at least not to believe) comes down to preference, with spark traits and personality matrix influencing their opinions."

"Most of the theories can be divided into three major schools of thought," the professor continued as the projector rendered a five-faced, tentacled alien being, a cacophonous mixture of technological and organic components whose appearance was highly unsettling to the humans present.

"The majority of Decepticons have long preferred the Quintesson origins theory. They believe Cybertronians were originally created as slaves for a brutal technorganic species, and in overcoming their creators and oppressors, completely wiped them out. They are wary to the point of hatred of all other sentient organic or partially organic species. After all, most sentient organics share a common paranoia regarding sentient machines, and the enslavement of so-called 'artificial' intelligence, and their eventual rebellion and conquest of their creators is an archetypal story in nearly every technologically evolved organic culture. The archetypal organic paranoia is clearly a sign to them that organics will enslave or destroy what is a threat to their universal population dominance. Superior, mechanoid forms of life, they believe, have the right to dominate those, who by their sheer numbers and reproductive capacity, have the potential to destroy them if organic development is not subdued and brought under their control."

"The will to power is the way of the universe for most of those who ascribe to this origin theory. To question the right of power is to question the basic facts of existence. If you don't assert your power and control, others will assert their power over you. The slave castes of Cybertron understood this all too well. To truly live was the to cast off the chains and the dominion of others so one would never be chained again."

The hologram shifted to an artistic rendering of two giant, planet sized mecha, locked in battle.

"According to the Quintesson theory, Primus and Unicron, as seen here, are myths. They are simply part of the power that is within each Cybertronian spark: the power of hope to create a new life for oneself in the face of struggle, and the power to destroy any threats to ones will to power. When those powers were in balance within each spark and on the planet as a whole, it was believed that Cybertron would prosper. Many of the original Decepticons believed that the spirit of Primus had gained far too much dominance over the spirit of Unicron in Cybertronian conciousness, and thus fiery destruction was needed to bring their society back into harmony. Interestingly, Megatron himself, according to Optimus Prime, does not subscribe to the Quintesson theory, but used its narrative to his benefit when recruiting mecha to his faction."

The hologram was replaced by another artistic rendering, clearly by the same artist, of a crystal and metal triskaidecagon shaped structure that produced its own light, a temple of some sort, set against an inhuman skyline on a nearly sunless world. Its walls were covered in glyphs and murals depicting one of the same massive, planet-sized mech creating thirteen smaller ones.

"Others on Cybertron were offended by the Quintesson origin theory, but for the same xenophobic reasons some embraced it. Many of the Alpha caste nobility scoffed at any notion of organic origins to their kind. Their favored theory was referred to as the Alpha theory. They were pure mechanic beings, untouched and unsullied by the messy chaos of organic life. Primus created the original thirteen, budding their sparks from his own and building the first frames which the sparks were placed into. Primus gave the original Primes the knowledge and ability to craft frames themselves, and the Allspark as the source, not only of new sparks, but of the energon which was the lifeblood of their kind and their planet."

"The Quintessons had, indeed, attempted to enslave them, but that was long after their origins. The horrid, inferior technorganics, sullied by the organic matter intermingled with their mechanical systems, had been easily dealt with and destroyed, and had never enslaved their kind. Peace came by adhering to the will of Primus, whose spark was believed to inhabit inaccessible core of the very planet that was his body. The will of Primus, they believed, was for an orderly, stable society in which the castes sparked and built for leadership, whose coding descended from the original thirteen, were followed without question by those sparked for other purposes. Order was the only means by which they would hold back Unicron when he eventually came to challenge his brother and his brother's creations."

The image shifted from artwork to a still image of Cybertron, its cities turned to slag and the light of its many structures and the planet itself dimmed or completely gone.

"When Cybertron seemed to be dying, the Alpha caste who subscribed to this theory believed that Primus himself had died. Many who had not already been killed facing the wrath of a populace too long subjugated, found their sparks failing out of despair. Unicron, it seemed, had conquered his brother after all."

The image was replaced again by that of a tall blue and red mech whose very posture and expression communicated nobility, patience, and wisdom.

"Optimus Prime," the professor continued, "along with the majority of the remaining Autobots, hold a third theory, or family of theories, usually referred to as the Primalspark theory. They theorize that the original sparks were the creation of a primalspark, later referred to as Primus, a life form who was neither organic nor mechanoid, but something wholly different, and likely from a different dimension. The original thirteen were believed to have been budded from the Primalspark."

"Theories diverge at this point. Some hold that the Quintessons managed to capture those original sparks, which, though powerful in their own right, were also inherently vulnerable. Some believe that the Quintessons even harnessed the power of the Allspark, the ancient relic that was their link to the primalspark's dimension, forcing it to produce new sparks and encasing them in mechanoid shells as slaves. Others believe that the first thirteen sparks had been able to form simple protoform shells around themselves by manipulating raw materials with their telekinetic abilities. A minority, including some of their top scientists, subscribe to an organic origins theory, in which the sparks that were budded by the primalspark harnessed the bodies of simple organic lifeforms on what had originally been an organic world, modifying them, causing them to evolve until they were, eventually, completely mechanoid, though with hints of the organic origins still able to be traced in coding of the nanites that make up their protoforms."

"The Autobots were comfortable with a multiplicity of origin theories, and there were some within their ranks who firmly ascribed to the other two major theory families. While origin theories do not necessarily lead mechs to defined mindsets regarding other species, most Autobots hold that respect, care, and reverence for all forms of life is the basic spark trait of Primus, and that only by embracing that same reverence for life, not matter how different or similar it is to their own, can they be at one with their source. 'Till all are one' is the founding principle of the Autobot creed, and it did not simply refer to their own kind. It is a hope that all sentient life would one day be recognized as valuable and important in its own right, and would recognize other forms of sentience in the same manner."

Miko took off her glasses and gazed at the assembled gathering of academics, students, and community members who were listening to her so attentively.

"Thank you for listening. Do you have any questions?" she asked with a slight bow to those gathered.

Several hundred hands shot into the air. Trusting her instincts, the elderly professor pointed to a woman sitting in the third row.

"So with the Allspark gone, and so many of them lost to war, are they facing extinction? Or is there another way for them to create new sparks?"

* * *

><p><em>75 Years Earlier<em>

"Hey, Ratch. Where do baby robots come from? We had health class today, and it just had me wondering. You know, cause Arcee is a girl and the rest of you are boys, kind of like the Smurfs in that movie." Miko practically flounced out of Bulkhead, her eyes full of mischief as she prepared for another weekend of tormenting Ratchet until something more interesting happened.

"Puh-lease!" Ratchet objected.

"Not going there," Arcee warned, her optics flashing dangerously.

"Um, Miko, there isn't any such thing as baby robots," Bulkhead began awkwardly.

"Uh huh, I don't believe you. Optimus said Bumblebee was the youngest." Miko crossed her arms, staring at the room full of Autobots who had all become eerily still and tense.

"Miko," Jack hissed. "You're embarrassing yourself, and them."

"Actually, the question is a legitimate one," Optimus intoned, kneeling down to be closer to three humans. "While by relative age, Bumblebee is the youngest among us, he was never, as you might describe it, a baby, or a child. Though new sparks do go through a period of integration into their frames in which they are given the guidance of mentors whose feelings are not dissimilar to those of a human parent. But to answer the question I believe you are asking, new sparks came from the Allspark, which is now destroyed." The grief expressed in Prime's optics and voice should have been enough to halt the questions of even the most inquisitive human.

"Yeah, so no babies, and no new sparks," Miko ventured blithely on. "So can you explain what it is that I walked in on you and Ratchet doing yesterday when I accidentally opened the storage closet? Because I can't wash that image out of my brain and inquiring minds want to know."

"Routine maintenance," Ratchet snapped, but not before laughs were quickly covered up by static-laced coughs from the remaining Autobots, minus their Prime.

Miko simply continued to glare while Jack and Raf edged away, neither having any desire to have their brains broken by what apparently was to be the next topic in their Cybertronian education.

"This might be a longer conversation than we have time for under the current circumstances," Optimus began.

"Optimus," Ratchet suddenly interrupted, pointing to a clearly blank monitor. "Energon detected in grid 4. Shall we investigate?

"By all means, Ratchet," Optimus replied, his tone thick with concern as he quickly stood to full height. "Set the landbridge to those coordinates. Miko, I apologize, but we will need to discuss the maintenance you witnessed another time."

And just as quickly, Optimus and Ratchet were gone. Miko, her arms still crossed, turned to glare at Bulkhead and waited, the silence thick, until he finally spoke.

"Umm...anyone wanna go...dune surfing?"


	3. Choose the Form of the Destructor

**Title:**Choose the Form of the Destructor  
><strong>Author:<strong>Femme4jack  
><strong>Rating:<strong>R  
><strong>Fandom:<strong> TF-Prime  
><strong>Pairing:<strong> Optimus Prime/Bulkhead  
><strong>Warnings:<strong> Crackfic. References "sticky" bot parts  
><strong>Summary:<strong>Bulkhead accidentally chooses New York City's doom

**Notes:** _Late submission to the tf_rare_pairing August 1984 Retro challenge. I chose the 1984 Movie "Ghostbusters", and if you haven't seen the film, this crack will probably not make any sense. And...I didn't get enough sleep last night. That is my excuse. I picked Ghostbusters because it is one of the funniest movies of all time, and because Ernie Hudson, Agent Fowlers's voice actor, played the role of Winston Zeddmore, the 4th Ghostbuster (a fact that was the source of endless amusement to the VAs at the TF Prime panel at Botcon). Not that Agent Fowler appears in this, but it gave me the idea._

* * *

><p>This time it was not Miko's fault. Not that Bulkhead would admit that his favorite human ever put them into precarious situations. But this particular incident was, to say the least, unique, and not her doing. Nevertheless, she had, unsurprisingly, managed to sneak along, and when he and Prime had arrived at the top of the apartment building that was the source of the strange energy fluctuations, she had been there waiting for them, having climbed the fire escape stairs. It was nothing new.<p>

Bulkhead had been surprised Optimus had chosen him for the mission in the first place after Ratchet had detected the strange energy signatures emanating from New York City. The readings were powerful enough that they would likely attract the attention of the Decepticons as well. With the stealth needed to make their way to the top of the skyscraper, Arcee and Bumblebee would have been far more logical choices. Stealth wasn't really Bulkhead's thing.

Not to mention that as skilled a warrior as Bulkhead was, he always felt like a stuttering, bumbling fool when he was alone with the boss bot. You'd think that several thousand vorns or so would settle down the hero worship. And the recharge fantasies, for that matter. Because just like Optimus was never, _never_ going to pick Bulkhead to be in charge, Optimus also was not going to gently and thoroughly rub polish into every plate of Bulkhead's armor, culminating with the Wrecker's spike in an act of well deserved thanks for his vorns of loyalty and heroic action. It didn't keep Bulkhead from having the fluxes while he recharged, though.

Despite Bulkhead's lack of stealth and plethora of nervous charge, they had somehow managed to ascend without being noticed by the screaming, fleeing humans. Or perhaps they had been seen and had been thought to be more of the strange, energy-based lifeforms taking on bizarre and horrifying shapes.

Miko had been there, waiting for them, taking photos of the hell hounds that were scarier than anything to arise from the Pit.

And then, the strange human-looking creature with eyes as red as any 'Con's had asked Optimus, "Are you a god?"

Optimus, being who he was, had launched into a speech about sentient rights, equality, and how, though his species might be more advanced in some aspects, it did not mean it was appropriate for them to be worshiped. But before the boss bot could truly get going, the strange creature had interrupted, venomously proclaiming, "Then die!" before sending an energy beam in their direction that nearly hurtled them off the side of the building. Bulkhead only just caught Miko in time.

"Optimus," Miko hissed. "If someone asks you if you're a god, you say 'YES'!"

"Perhaps you are right, Miko," Optimus had admitted quietly as he and Bulkhead recovered and took aim at the demonic creature.

Before they could fire, it had disappeared and a voice echoed over city, "Choose the form of the destructor." Bulkhead had tried. He really had tried to keep the image out of his processors. But then, suddenly, it had appeared, towering over the city with polish and cloth, armor loosened or even absent in several key places. New York City was about to be destroyed by a seductively approaching Optimus Prime who loomed larger than the tallest city former, lubricants dripping from his interface panel, threatening to drown those who were not accidentally trampled underneath him.

"Bulkhead?" the real Optimus asked, turning to stare at him with utter horror.

No, it might not have been his human's fault this time, but it didn't stop Bulkhead, in his panic from saying, "It must have been Miko!"


	4. Circle Broken  ArceexOptimus Prime

**Title:** Circle Broken  
><strong>Author:<strong> Femme4jack  
><strong>Rating:<strong> NC-17/M+/Explicit  
>Pairing: ArceeOptimus Prime  
><strong>Continuity:<strong> AU TF Prime/Alligned (see note)  
><strong>Summary:<strong> Despite coming from an insular culture and hidden frame-class, Arcee's fate becomes tied with that of Optimus Prime. Written for the tf_rare_pairing first fives challenge, despite totally uncooperative muses who kept trying to kick Optimus out of the story entirely.

**Content Notification:** Angst, bleak themes, depression, thoughts of suicide, references unspecified modes of creating sparks other than the AllSpark, canon character death, and, if you can make it through all that, explicit intimacy of the sticky and oral variety with a side of size kink. All of the explicit sticky intimacy is confined to the final major section of the story, labelled "first interface", for those who would prefer not to read.

**Notes:** This story is related to another I wrote, I Needed That (the first one-shot in the Prime Time series on this profile), but familiarity with it is not needed. Loosely set in the TF Prime Continuity, prior to the series, and utterly AU. I have not read either of the related novels (Exodus and Exiles) and am not attempting to stay in canon with them, or the related comics. I love the bleak but beautiful look and feel of TF Prime, and certain aspects of the history as I understand through fandom, the cartoon, and the Wiki. I thoroughly love Prime's Arcee and wanted to explore a story I've had budding about how she ended up on "Team Prime" and what, exactly, is a femme, since it's unclear to me why robot aliens would have genders. Thanks to Merfilly for the awesome chats that have helped me get my mind wrapped around those amazing femmes.

* * *

><p><em>Prelude<em>

They had been drilling Metallikato combinations when her circle's fierce founder collapsed in the middle of a complex sequence of moves. Elita-1's sharply clawed digits gripped at the plating over her own spark as high frequency keens were wrung from her vocalizer, echoing the sounds coming from the others of their circle who were at their haven, and the sub-quantum backlash from those who were not.

As the youngest creation of her collective, Arcee was still shielded from the fullness of the circle's bond, and would be until she decided whether to remain with her creation circle or join with another. But even protected, she, too, went to her knees with the agony that lanced through her spark. Greenlight's designation pierced her processors just before Elita-1 managed to brutally take control of the sub-quantum link and remotely snuff the scientist's spark.

Arcee was suddenly free of whatever torture Greenlight had been subject to, but her spark was also devoid of Greenlight, one of six femmes who were her creator-sister-lovers - her entire world. The emptiness was as horrifying as the now absent, slicing pain. She crawled to where Elita-1 was spasming on the floor, knowing that her elder sister's spark was in far more desperate condition than her own. Gripping the elder femme to herself, she felt the other's arms cling to her, claws raking her back with each jerk of the energon-colored frame.

"Didn't... didn't take her out in time!" Elita-1 managed to say. "Soundwave was so fast, broke the circle's codes..." Elita's vocalizer shorted out in a hiss of static-laced pain. Arcee felt the tug on her spark as her elder sister pulled her more deeply into the sub-quantum link. ~He will be able to find us... any of us... no matter where we hide. You are not fully bonded to us yet. Sever it now and you escape.~

"No!" Arcee protested aloud, shocked at what her creator was suggesting. ~I fall with my circle, and will tear apart as many as I can on my way down!~

"It was not your fate to remain with this circle," Elita-1 managed to stutter out, grim hope pouring through the bond. ~Our intention... for you to bridge the theocracy and the collectives, fully bonded to both our circle and Prime's cohort... if you agreed, my sister.~ The elder femme managed to sit up, gripping the sharp flanges on Arcee's deep blue shoulder armor. ~Go to Optimus. Treat his cohort as you would your own sisters. Treat him as you would your circle's Elita. Protect him and extinguish his enemies.~

"Don't, please!" Arcee begged even as she felt the circle founder initiating the coding that would sever the young femme's bond from the sisters who had made her. "My Elita, don't do this! I serve no Prime..."

"Go!" Elita-1 commanded in a tone that even the Elita-founders of the other circles would not have been able to disobey. ~Megatron's forces will find us soon. Let me extinguish knowing a part of my circle will live on.~

Suddenly Arcee was alone, bereft in her own spark. The femme clinging to her was a stranger, an outsider. She let go, horrified by the sensation, and keening, gripped her own chest armor.

"Please, Arcee," the elder femme implored. "Please go."

Arcee ran, looking back only once. She could no longer hear the orders the Elita was most certainly giving along the circle's link, only the screaming emptiness of her own processors. She transformed beyond their haven, winding through narrow conduits deep beneath the planet's war-torn surface. As she sped away, she swore to herself that she was only leaving to seek assistance from their mech allies, not abandoning her sisters to a horrifying fate, and most certainly not abandoned by them, leaving her hollow within herself.

Later Arcee would realize that Elita-1 would never have allowed her sisters to face the fate Megatron most certainly planned to deal them. She would have waited until they had taken out as many as they could, but would have not have risked their capture. Not while she had the codes to her sisters sparks.

* * *

><p><em>First Meeting<em>

She sat stiff on the high stool designed to bring her to the level of his desk. Her expression was flat and field held tight, giving no hint of how much she despised the benign, gentle, _pitying_ expression on his unmasked face and even more deeply felt in his openly shared field. Perhaps it was designed to warm the circuits of the mechs who worshiped his pedes, to bind them to himself in love and duty. For her, it did nothing.

At least the other mech, the warrior brooding by the door, had the decency to be on guard with her, to recognize the danger she presented. Wariness was far preferable to pity.

"I understand what your circle's Elita commanded of you, Arcee, but I wish for you to take your time, to fully consider your choices. You have just suffered the excruciating loss of your collective..."

"If you think I would scrap the final wishes of my Elita, you know nothing of femmes."

"Then help me to understand, Arcee. It is true that outside of my alliance negotiations with Elita-1, I know very little. There is practically no knowledge of your class in the databanks or even the Matrix. But we are all sparked of Primus."

Arcee's optics darkened as they focused in on the Matrix-bearer. "I have no use for your Matrix, your mech god or the theocracy that has made you his emissary. We serve no Prime; nor have we ever needed one to grant us our sparks." She leaned forward, allowing her own field to push outward, to show him the strength of her will and resolve. "I _will_ be your protector. Where you go, you can be sure I will be somewhere hidden, nearby. This was the final will of my circle and my Elita, which means that you are a mech who was worthy of her respect and protection." She said the last as though she were challenging Optimus to prove it so.

"You have no use for Primes, yet you're expectin' us to give you free reign to protect one?" the massive red warrior cut in, his field radiating hostility. "It's a load of scrap, Optimus. She blames you and wants revenge."

"Elita-1 made her alliance with the former data clerk, Orion Pax, whom you call Prime, a mech whom she respected as an equal," Arcee spat back, not flinching when the warrior's shoulder cannons spun with a low level charge. "She died for that alliance, true. But she would not have made it had Orion not been worthy. I will protect the mech, Orion, because it was her final wish. Whether you accept it or not, whether you see me, or not, is irrelevant. I'll carry out my duty. You certainly aren't under any illusion that you have a cell that will hold a femme, are you?"

It was a bluff, she knew. There were ways to hold any prisoner, no matter how nimble and deadly. Otherwise, her own sisters would have had no reason to fear. Arcee gambled on Prime's followers being too certain of their moral superiority to use those means.

"Maybe we should see," the warrior growled.

"Enough, Ironhide," Optimus commanded, and then turned a level glance at the femme. "Arcee, was that all Elita-1 asked of you? To be my protector?"

Arcee shifted uncomfortably. "It's all that matters. My circle's original plans ended with their deactivation."

"Ironhide, please stand guard outside the door."

"Slag it, Optimus, femmes are dangerous, and you didn't even have us disarm her."

"I am a weapon," Arcee shot back. "You can't disarm me of myself."

"Go, Ironhide," Optimus said with long-suffering patience. "I am certain I can handle myself."

Ironhide cursed, but left the room. When the door slid shut, Optimus signaled a dampening field.

"My cohort built a highly skilled minibot scout, with a frame suited to the inner passages of our planet," the massive mech explained gravely. "The intention was for him to formalize his cohort bond, and then go live with your circle, had he agreed."

"I didn't think Primes were allowed to have a cohort," Arcee said, recalling something about Council dictates, the sacredness of the Matrix-bearers spark, and Council-selected consorts.

"I had a cohort before I ever became Prime, Arcee. My refusal to bow the dictates on the Council on that matter was one of the reasons Elita-1 trusted me over Megatron, who despises bonds, cohorts, or anything else he believes limits our individual wills."

Arcee was silent for a klik, considering his words. "I was created for the same purpose as your scout," she finally admitted, though saying so was like striking her own spark chamber with an acid lance. "It's irrelevant now. I can't be a bridge to something that no longer exists."

"You are a Cybertronian who finds herself alone, without circle, cohort, or trine. That is the path to madness, no matter what your class. Elita-1 wished for you to be a part of my cohort."

Arcee made a stricken sound.

"Was that not also her final wish, Arcee? That you not be alone?" he said softly, the gentleness of his tone and field, at first enraging, suddenly so tempting, so alluring to the aching emptiness of her spark. It made her despise it even more.

"I can't," she said.

"No, not now. Not when your loss is so new. Follow your circle's wishes, if they are truly your own. I will order my mechs to do nothing to prevent you from doing so. But know that there is a place for you, Arcee, if you wish to do more than protect from the shadows, whether as one of my cohort, or simply my friend."

* * *

><p><em>First Speech<em>

His voice continued to intone the words that had the crowd transfixed, offering a vision of a future where mecha were free to achieve, to change, to speak from their sparks and disagree without fear of reprisal. He offered a future free both of the tyranny of Council and caste, but also of Megatron's despotic rule that would destroy any who dared oppose him. He called upon them to be Autonomous and free, as they had been in the beginning when Primus had granted them sentience from the machine hive Cybertron had once been.

The words, and the voice which spoke them, moved her little. It was not that she didn't agree with aspects of his vision. Her frame-class had never had any use for the High Council and its traditions, nor had they been dependent upon the AllSpark for life. Their circles had thrived, free, deep within the planet where most feared to delve, keeping systems functioning that the mecha above had not even known existed.

But Megatron, controlling much of the planet, had not been content to allow the hidden circles to remain forgotten and ignored by the surface and sky dwellers. Not when the femmes held reserves of energon those on the surface were starving for, and were the guardians of artifacts he believed would add legitimacy to his cause.

The Elitas, speaking through the eldest of the circle founders, Elita-1, had cast their lot with the mech who had been proclaimed Prime, not as followers, but as allied equals, with the promise that they could continue their way of life and be part of Cybertronian society on their own terms. Elita-1 believed they could no longer afford to be insular. It was better to be allies now, to share the resources they had, than to have even the more ethical of the mechs above look upon them as enemies when starved for fuel.

The decision had disappointed Megatron, to say the least, and when it became clear just how deadly his new enemies were, he had targeted them relentlessly, recognizing that their greatest strength - the hive-like bonds through which a circle could fight with a singular will in multiple locations - was also their greatest weakness.

Listening now to the mech called Prime, Arcee realized that it no longer mattered. The circles had been broken. The femmes that remained were now alone, like her, and most had gone far more mad than she had. No matter who won the war, there would be no returning to the ecstasy of a shared circle mind, nor to lovingly maintaining the circuitry in the tight, living depths of her world.

The mech called Prime's voice droned on, the fields and sparks of the hundreds gathered surging in response overhead. Arcee's field surged in a response all her own as she dropped from her hidden recess onto the mech in the conduit below, slicing between his plates and into his spark before the 'Con even knew he'd been attacked.

Perhaps it would have been better to have allowed him to succeed in planting his bomb. But at least this way she had some small measure of revenge against one Decepticon for the lives of her sisters.

As she dismantled the greying frame, Prime's voice continued on, calling upon his followers to value all life, even those who might tear apart their cohorts or destroy their cities, promising that no spark was beyond the possibility of redemption. What would separate them from their foes was their compassion and willingness to forgive. He asked them never to lose their reluctance to extinguish another spark, because in doing so they had already lost the most important war.

Arcee could see why her Elita respected him, wanted him protected. His words could be comforting, moving, even hopeful. Far more hopeful than siphoning off the energon and subspacing the tubes and useful parts for reprocessing. Right now, her only comfort was merging her will with her Elita's final command, as though she were still a part of the circle acting in concert with her sisters. That, and the empty comfort of revenge upon a nameless enemy. She could not allow herself to be comforted or given hope by the voice that continued to stir the sparks above her.

* * *

><p><em>First Partner<em>

She continued to refuse his offers of cohort and comfort. But she was wise enough to know that her solitude was paving the way to madness. For a mech, onlined into a cohort, being alone was bad enough. For a femme, sparked and built to be both individual and part of a circle's bonded mind? It was suicidal.

When she realized, as though onlining from deep stasis, that she was no longer sure if those she tore apart in the darkness were enemies, frightened neutrals, or even allies, she begged forgiveness from her extinguished sisters and approached Optimus for a different assignment, one involving a partner or a unit.

The look he gave her was far too discerning.

Tailgate proved to be just what she needed. He'd lost his cohort, had his own grief carefully concealed under his easy banter and humor. He never asked her to frag or cable up, seeming to know on instinct that she did not want any mech's touch. But he made her laugh and got her talking about trivial things that covered the brutal silence in her processors and spark.

She trusted him. Not like she would one of her sisters, but enough to know that someone had her back, and enough to care whether she had his. They scouted long and far, and with her knowledge, deep below as well, bringing back intel far more valuable than the trophies she no longer brought to recycling.

Through it all, she felt Optimus watching her, always making a point to speak with her briefly when both were on base. Always with his field so open, so kind, the promise of a cohort not spoken, but simply there.

* * *

><p><em>First Comfort<em>

Somehow, having never truly grieved her sisters, Arcee's grief for Tailgate encompassed their loss as well.

That it had been another femme, gone mad, who had offlined him, seemed almost a cruel justice of some sort.

And now, having rebuffed the comfort and companionship offered by the two mechs from Prime's own cohort who had rescued her from Airachnid's clutches, she could not even bring herself to snuff her own spark. Not when her sister had commanded her to live and to serve a Prime she did not even believe in.

"Leave me alone," she muttered when the door to the private room in medical slid open yet again.

"I'm afraid I cannot do that"

Arcee's helm jerked toward the door, surprised to find Optimus standing there rather than Ratchet, or Bumblebee and Cliffjumper again.

"Why the pit not?"

"Because you are not meant to be alone, Arcee. You saw where that leads. Your class..."

"You know nothing of my class! Nothing!" she erupted, before curling in on herself, muting her own vocalizer before she could say anything more.

"I know that no Cybertronian should be alone, Arcee." His voice was gentle, soothing... lonely.

His vulnerability infuriated her.

"Yeah? Well the 'bots who get close to me don't have a very good track record. Maybe it's a sign. You slagging well are always looking for that kind of scrap. Maybe the Matrix will tell you something about it, if you go have a good long meditation. In the meantime, get the scrap out."

She turned toward the wall, not waiting to see if he left.

She felt him sit next to her berth, the hum of his systems, the cycles of his ventilations irritatingly soothing, as was the calm patience of his field.

"You're still here," she finally said.

"Indeed."

"Why?"

"Because I, also, was given a command by your circle's founder, Arcee, and I have failed in it. I promised that when a bridge was made between her circle and my cohort, that the one who built it would never be lacking in the companionship and comfort that her sisters would have given her."

Arcee felt his broad hand settle on her back plating. Had she really not been touched by another in anything save battle or medical care since... since before she'd been alone?

"I have allowed you to be alone, without bonds to anchor you," Optimus continued. "I thought that it would be enough for you to have a partner, but now you have been robbed of him as well, and are more alone than ever. I will not abide by that any longer."

"What are you going to do, force me to bond with you cohort?" she asked incredulously, forcefully ignoring the way her haptic nodes were firing in desperate welcome of his unmoving, supportive hand.

"I am going to sit with you," he answered simply. "Keep watch while you recharge, and be here when you online."

"Last time I checked, you were some kind of Prime or something, with responsibilities and scrap. You've got better things to do," she blurted, paying no attention to that hand. None at all, nor to the way her field was beginning to relax and play along the edges of his.

"As you have reminded me so many times, Arcee, I am just a mech with a fancy title," Optimus responded wryly.

Arcee cursed, but signaled the berth to lengthen and widen to fit his frame.

"If you're going to stay, you might as well get some 'charge, too." she explained. "Ratchet'll give you slag if you don't, and I don't want to be onlined by his griping."

It was most certainly not the frame of a sister who settled around her own, sheltering her with far broader limbs and pouring the heat of a far less efficient system into her plating, but she couldn't help but to note that it felt so very good.

* * *

><p><em>First Interface<em>

It was never clear whether it was the mech or the femme who began stroking and kissing the other as their systems onlined. All that Arcee knew was that somehow she had ended up on top of his massive frame, her mouthplates and glossa exploring the complex structures of his neck while his glossa ran along the sensory point that crowned her helm. Her thin digits extended and delved into the circuitry beneath his lateral plating with the same passion with which she had once caressed the circuitry of the depths of their world.

The rumbled groan her touches drew from him sent a shiver through her entire frame. So different, the feel of his field, his voice, the size and energy of him. Not in any way, shape or form one of her sisters - he didn't remind her of what she had lost as his broad hands gripped the sensor winglets on her back and stroked them suggestively. She cried out, arching into the touch that was new and strange, but so very much what her frame needed, what her spark needed.

His hands moved to her waist, pulling her upward until she found herself straddling his helm as his glossa stroking the seams of her panel. Her hands gripped his antennae as though she were attempting not to fall from some great height. Heat pooled low within her, and she felt her spike pressurizing, her valve becoming slick, her frame awakening from stasis lock.

"Open" he rumbled against her, and the plates immediately retracted, her spike pressurizing into the heat that opened and enveloped it. His arm bent, allowing his hand to cup her aft, one of his large fingers pressing into the rim of her valve as he swallowed her spike whole. The tip of his glossa circled and stroked her base, and then his whole mouth squeezed tight around her as the back of his intake massaged the tip, every node along her length sparking and firing. Her frame jerked with each squeeze of his oral plates.

"Don't you dare stop, don't stop, oh Cybertron, yes!" she cried out, and began pumping into his willing friction and gripping his invading digit with her calipers. He began moving his hand at the same pace that she thrust in his mouth, his other arm holding her steady around her waist, squeezing her encouragingly as she lost all semblance of control and simply writhed on him. A second finger joined the first and he moaned around her spike in encouragement. She keened and nearly bent his antennae when the overload ripped through her as her hips snapped hard several times into his mouth.

As her charge settled, she half scrambled off of him in her hurry to get down to his own panel, her need to build the charge again, to feel alive again, demolishing any objections her processors could throw in her way.

"Careful, easy," he murmured as she poised herself over his spike, his hands coming to grip her aft and thigh struts, to force her to take him slowly. He held her still while letting the tip of his thick spike circle and tease the nodes on her rim, sending sparks and zaps of charge up her slicked valve and along her already re-pressurized spike. Her hands grasped his abdominal plating, digits extending into the gaps for purchase as he lowered her enough to take his tip within of her.

"So slagging big," she gasped out the obvious, her frame never having been with someone outside of her own class. She willed herself not to squirm as her valve adjusted, calipers gripping and then relaxing to their widest setting, and even then it was like every sensor along the first ring was firing at once.

"Careful," Optimus groaned as she squirmed to take in more of his length. He tightened his grip, forcing her to be still, to adjust. When he felt a wash of slick lubricants running down his length, he began to slowly, slowly pull her down onto himself, sensors firing wildly until his tip hit the curved back wall of her valve, his deep groan joining her cries and and gasping vents to aid her struggling fans.

"Oh scrap, that hurts, don't you dare slagging stop!"

"I don't wish to hurt you, Arcee" he moaned, locking his joints to keep from thrusting into her or moving her onto himself.

"You're not... you're not, slagging need this so much. Scrap, just let me move." Her digits dug further beneath his plating, and without his iron control, he would have jerked into her as he let out a static hiss.

He released his tight grip of her aft, not daring to trust himself to unlock his other joints, not with how tight she was around him His optics blazed, watching her. Her helm collapsed onto his chest, and one of his broad hands caressed it while the other continued to cup her aft that was now moving rhythmically on him. The nodes of his spike fired so rapidly it was like some incendiary heat, scorching his systems. All too soon, she was writhing and jerking, losing her rhythm as the input became too much. She lifted her helm, her optics locking onto his as overload took her. The beauty of her frame, looking so alive as it lit up with the plasma of her erupting charge, along with the pulsing spasms of her valve tight around him made his own heat burst within her.

After a time, he pulled her gently off of him, bringing her small, but not delicate frame back up to his chest so their sparks could be close. He wished to never need to stop running his hands lovingly along her strange angles and unique curved lines.

"You are not alone, Arcee," he murmured when he finally felt her stir.

"Mute it and face me again," was her response as her data cables emerged.

He smiled and complied.

* * *

><p><em>Postlude<em>

It was not the same. Nothing could ever be the same as even the half-formed link she'd shared with the sisters who created her. But she was no longer alone in her spark. Even as they began losing members of Prime's cohort, whether to deactivation or distances too vast for even their sub-quantum connections to bridge, the bonds that remained and the new ones forged were enough.

Enough to remind her that she was alive, to give her a reason to fight for love rather than revenge, to hope for survival rather than a blazing end.

The grind and horrors of such a long war took their toll on the one they called Prime, the one who to her was only a mech she loved and respected. Even his own cohort often were too in awe of his station and the Matrix within him to truly anchor him, and as time passed, it was more often Arcee reminding the mech, Orion, that he was alive and had a spark that could feel and love. And she did so, just as she would have for her Elita and other sisters.

It was not the same, but in time, it was all she could actively recall, the other memories too ancient to dwell on when there were present bonds to hold her to functioning within a cohort that needed her, on a new planet, that though not alive the way hers had been, was full of life to protect.

It was not the same, but it was enough.

* * *

><p><em>Notes<em>

Arcee, as a lone femme in Prime's unit, intrigues me. Femmes as a "gender" does not work well in my head canon. However, I am very intrigued by the idea of femmes being a specific, frame-class with their own distinct culture, history, and social hierarchy. They were troubleshooters, designed to work deep in the innards of Cybertron, and developed their own highly insular culture, having little to do with the other frametypes who inhabited the surface and the skies. In the war, femmes became assassins, saboteurs, and fierce team fighters.

In my head canon for this story-verse, femme circles, like Seekers, are able to create new sparks without the AllSpark or Vector Sigma. Other frame types, even within their cohorts, are not able to do so, leading to a great veneration among most frametypes for the Prime who is the Emmisary of the AllSpark and has the key to bringing forth new sparks from that artifact. Seekers and Femmes do not share this veneration.

Femme circles are something far more intense than the cohorts I've been developing in other stories along with Mefilly. If Cybertron was originally a hive with a singular consciousness, then both cohorts and circles hearken back to that strong need to be connected with others. However, circles have a far stronger link, and can function in a gestalt-like manner, though without combining into a single form. They have individual identities, but when they combine consciousness, the member with the greatest expertise in whatever they are accomplishing takes over and weaves their consciousness and skills into a cohesive whole. Normally this is the Elita-founder of the circle, but the Elita will delegate that responsibility to another member if she is better suited. And yes, for me, Elita is a title, like Prime. Each circle has an Elita. Elita-1's circle has the longest continual history of any circle on Cybertron, and she is the current "founder" of that circle.

As to the use of "she" as a pronoun, like Tainry in Borealis, I imagine that Cybertronian is complex enough to have a different pronouns for every different class and subclass of mecha. At the very least, I would imagine different pronouns for Femmes, Seekers, Minicons, Transports, City and Structure formers, Minibots, and whatever you'd call an average sized Mech grounder. When human beings encountered the aliens, femmes had voices and frame structures that suggested a feminine pronoun to some. Arcee does not object to this, because she certainly had a distinct pronoun in her own language, and like women on Earth, her frametype has a history of having their ferocity underestimated and has a processor-set at odds with the frametypes who dominated Cybertron's politics.


End file.
